[2013-12-12 9:14:57]

 Walter Ikenna Osadebe（作家）尼日利亚

1976出生于奥尼查，阿南布拉州
国籍：尼日利亚

 教育\资格

* Nwora Umunna纪念小学，奥尼查，阿南布拉州（ 1982-1988 ）
 *大都会中学，奥尼查，阿南布拉州：西非考试委员会认证（ WAEC ） - （ 1988-1993 ）
 *通用证书的标准教育（ GCSE ） - （ 1995）
* Wolex职业技术学院，拉各斯州：在大众传播（上信用）专业文凭 - （ 1998-2000）
 *警察训练学校（PTS ） ，伊凯贾，拉各斯：证书在安全性和编外研究 - （ 2007年10月7日 - 2008年1月18日）
 *对于研究所国际政治研究，米兰，意大利（ ISPI ）的合作，与欧盟联合开发计划署工作队和国际民主和选举援助：高级文凭课程的有效选举援助 - （ 2008年10月 - 2009年10月17日）

*自由的合法性和权利在欧洲（ FLARE ） - 奥特朗托暑期学校合法性的经验：“证书上的非法经济，有组织罪案及全球化’ - （ 8月29日至9月3日，2011） ，奥特朗托，意大利。
*尼日利亚警方爆炸品处理命令（防炸弹队） ，拉各斯州：证书上的简易爆炸装置意识 - （ 6月10日至14日， 2013年）
*尼日利亚财团法人工业安全（ NIIS ） ，拉各斯州：证书上预防恐怖主义，应急规划和避免恐怖袭击 - （七月2013 ）
*目前正在进行一项研究生课程腐败和诚信管理查尔斯特大学，曼利分校，澳大利亚，作为一个国际远程教育学生。

 工作经验
* Swipha （尼格）有限公司（原罗氏公司（尼格）有限公司）质量管理协助 - （ 1995-1997）
* Citiserve （尼格）有限公司 行政协助（ 2000年12月 - 2005年1月）
路线元帅（ 2005年1月， Sept.2007 ）

*费舍尔的旅游SOS - （安全和声音通讯） ，英国。
 编辑器（尼日利亚） - （ 2007-2008）
 
*壳牌尼日利亚勘探与生产有限公司（ SNEPCO ）间谍主任（ 2007年10月直到日期）
 
*自由撰稿人。
*成功出版了两本电子书籍虚构的题为： “来到非洲”和“出正义’ 。
 *撰写了历史上的政治本书名为： “路民主转型：历史视野尼日利亚国家” 。在420页的书，记述了因为它是，军事过渡到尼日利亚文官统治的历史。
 *参与撰写第二版简单地题为：“舍不得传输：尼日利亚的民主斗争自独立以来” ，与TUNDE Oseni博士，大学教师和政治学家。
•参与在青年和治理在全国举办的各种艺术研讨会扬声器。

协会会员，尼日利亚作者协会（ ANA） 。

一篇关于非洲的短篇小说：

A TITLE FROM MY COLLECTION OF AFRICAN SHORT STORIES.

CIAO

It was summer noon. As usual, Roma central train terminal bustled with human activities. Like other train termini in Italy, Roma terminal was a cacophony of life realities. Grocery, fashion and fast food shops dotted the terminal. Hundreds of people of different races – black, white, caucasians and gypsies moved about the train terminal either to exit from it, board a train or just loitering around. At every turn was an electronic information board which hosted quite a number of people looking up for the departure or arrival time of the trains.

At the left side entrance, facing lines of African shops across the road was a carved brownish, roaring bull that could send a chill down the spine of a stranger that burst in.

 There were movements just everywhere, and Italian cops patrolled at intervals in motorized mini trucks with occasional burst on gypsies, mostly junkies, who clustered and idled away menacingly in the terminal.

 Beside an elevator down to bin 2 of the terminal were two young white people who sat on the tile floor, and had been smooching themselves all through, giving no hoot…European wonder…Often times, the boy would look into the girl’s eyes, muttered something to her, gave her a kiss. At a stage, the two were so locked in a kiss that a cop who probably had been keeping tab of their public display of affection, politely walked up to them and said something to them. The young lovebirds looked at each other with a smile, quietly disentangled and rose to their feet.

 Scattered about the terminal were biglietto vending machines. The gypsies walked about the machines with upsetting gaze at those that vended biglietto for their trips. The very moment an intending traveler was done with vending, a gypsy would walk up to the machine and slot hand into its balance collection point to ascertain if the person had abandoned his balance. More often than not, they approached to assist a novice on the use of the vending machine. After the biglietto had been vended, they demand a tip from the person.

 Outside the terminal was a taxi park where cab drivers haggled and contested for passengers with more interest on strangers who were susceptible to prey on with their fare reading meter.

 I sat on a pavement outside the terminal. I looked blithely unconcern as two police men tried to revive a gaunt looking North African man who suddenly had slumped in front of the terminal. The man stank and appeared dehydrated. He was rolling his eyeballs as if it was being polished by the bright summer sun. The Italian cops brought out a pet bottle of water, forced his mouth open. The man gulped the water with a shake of his head and staggered to his feet. The cops made to restrain him but the man staggered off.

 I wasn’t in the least perplexed by such a scene. Many a person had left the shores of Africa under the weight of poverty only to be crushed by sheer frustration in Europe.

 Braiding my hair with straps of golden hair attachment, I still never lost sight of my attractiveness. Though I paraded sparse hair with straps of braid, some Italian ladies obviously admired the golden hair attachment as they walked by. A tip of one Euro had just been given me by a woman who approached for a twist of her hair with the golden attachment. And I hoped for more, more tips from Italian women seeking for African beauty.

 I adjusted my brown mini skirt over a knee length black pant. I knew I had lost considerable weight but that suggestive curve which had brought many Italian dudes to their knees was still there. I was still a true African belle with great sex appeal. The insect bites and scratches on my skin were due to exposure to different weathers as I had marked time outside in the thick of cold winter, hot summer, spring and autumn while sleeping in various train termini across the length and breadth of Italy.

 I scratched open a dry bruise on my hand, ink of blood appeared. I dabbed it off with my finger and frowned at two black ladies who sashayed by, choosing to ignore me.

 I was in the know, however, that for aliens, Europe was a jungle of some sort and in a jungle, there was no brother. In Italy, it was made worse among women probably because most of us were in a rivalry, often times, bitter rivalry situation in the oldest profession in the globe.

 I had seen the two sides of prostitution and was always peeved whenever I saw those young African ladies swaying their flat buttocks as if nothing else in the world mattered to them. And they were mostly newcomers, Johnny came lately, all hoarded to Italy through the deserts with ‘igbese’ hanging on their necks and to be paid through the wear and tear of their womanhood.

 I looked at the girls making their way into the train terminal and shook my head in disgust. Yes, every train terminal in Italy served as a convergent point to sundry sort of immigrants…vagrancy, drug peddling and prostitution. Sooner than later, those young African ladies would taste the bitter pills of prostitution in Europe. The world of prostitution was full of bestiality – envy, betrayal, rape, violence and death – and my credential in it was quite apt and intimidating, as intimidating as the academic qualifications of an erudite Professor in the University of Pisa.

 But experience had shown me that sex work never paid anyone no matter the circumstance. And those young ladies would soon learn that…If they were fortunate to.

 I recoiled as I heard a shrilled, strange voice. Same strange voice that had been assailing me with constant threat of death.

 I stealthily moved towards the left side of the pavement where some gypsies were busy chatting and smoking away their lives. I quivered, the gypsies showed no concern…They were grilled in less or even more miserable condition.

 A little while, I haplessly walked again to the right side of the pavement. The feeling of vulnerability was gradually seeping through, about to envelop me. I was afraid, even afraid of my own shadows.

 I wrapped my breast with the hands. My legs trembled as I watched a tourist-filled double-decker bus with inscription of ‘Roma Sight Seeing’ on both sides, drove by.

 Dozens of white people were seated at the roofless top of the double-decker soaking up the summer sun.

 I had always seen myself as part of Italian society, but for once, the reality of being in a foreign land dawned on me as the double-decker drove through. Cloud of tears swelled in my eyes. I was actually losing touch with reality in a foreign land.

 I cast my mind back to the start of it all; a probing eyes followed by a stunner ‘would you want to come to Italy with me?’ That was an irresistible offer from Madame Eso for being so nice to her whenever she was in the country. I did her shopping, cooking and took care of her numerous guests.

 Madame Eso was a rich woman by all ramifications, and I was always amazed at the respect her personality commanded whenever she arrived Benin city from Italy.

 She had been able to establish herself back home as she owned chains of notable supermarkets and boutiques in and around the city.

 The exodus of Nigerians to the western world in the late eighties induced by government’s Structural Adjustment Program policy had painted living abroad the color of Eldorado. Every Nigerian youth yearned for an opportunity to leave the country for anywhere, just anywhere around the globe; and those that succeeded in leaving were not faring badly…erecting edifying structures here and there within a short period with resources only God knew how and where it was gotten from.

 Madame Eso had intently studied my jocular nature, and with the finesse I employed in attending to her guests, she confessed that I would be a hot material in Italy.

 Within a period of two weeks, my traveling documents were made ready. I was overly excited, about to start a new life, a new beginning.

 Madame Eso had told me I was going to look after her African shops in Italy and ensure the Nigerian sales girls make proper account of the day’s transactions. The girls, she averred, had gone after African men, using her sales to please them, most, if not all the men, had nothing doing in Europe, merely lazying about and looking for desperate African ladies to pest on and suck dry with fake promises of marriage.

 No stress. I was not a novice to men’s intrigues or male-female relationship. I mothered a boy to attest to it. And I was neither new to business management and book keeping. I had successfully managed my late father’s timber business in Benin for close to three years, even when others were closing shops. Sojourning in Italy would only exploit and take my business acumen to the next level.

The following day, I was rudely shocked when Madame Eso walked in with a man whom she said was going to ensure my passage to Europe.

 I had only thought of leaving Benin city for Lagos in her company, heading straight to Murtala Muhammed International Airport, Ikeja, to board a flight, and finally arriving Italy with ears filled with wonderful jokes and stories about the country. But I was dazed clutching my luggage beside a total stranger Madame Eso assured would ensure my entry to Europe, and so began my European odyssey.

 From Benin city to Kano, and Kano to Zidan, and Zidan to Agadez in northern Niger Republic, I was forced to cut my teeth in prostitution.

 First week in Agadez, I could never forget the savagery with which a Nigerien man made love to me. For weeks, I was in great pains. My vagina was badly torn because the man had deliberately inserted his whole hand inside me as if he was on a mission to pull out my womb. Interestingly, the man, I eventually came to know as Muha, later became my best friend in Agadez.

 Close to four months that I spent in the northern Nigerien region, I was severally abused sexually. Aside Muha who afterwards started to treat my womanhood with dignity, every other person was a savage who must be sexually satisfied with little or nothing. They roundly feasted on me.

 Muha was the first person to intimate me about my mission to Italy, and even tried to dissuade me from continuing with the journey. He suggested eloping with me to another part of Niger, but that didn’t go down well with me. I sensed a ploy to totally possess, trap and cage me in one remote part of the republic, inevitably as a sex object. That was far from liberation.

 From Agadez, across the desert to Duluku, a border to Libya, and Duluku to Zuala in Libya, I had seen death countless times.

 Ultimately, sixteen hours across the Mediterranean sea in a tube boat, nine of us, all of African descent, six young men, three ladies, entrapped between life and death, tossed here and there mid-sea, huddled together with faces etched with grief and resignation, weak, weary and nauseating till heavens eventually smiled at us on arrival of a United Nations search patrol team…Welcome to Lampedusa…Welcome to Bari, the southern city of Italy.

 Madame Eso operated a prostitution ring in Italy. Two days in Bari camp, a middle-aged African man walked into the camp, met with the Italian authorities; I was called upon and instantaneously, my release was secured.

 Italy was welcoming to me. From the southern city of Bari to the northern city of Milan - the places, the peoples, their firm grip on her language and somewhat acceptability of foreign immigrants, particularly of African descents, gave the European country a total picture of an advanced Africa.

 I no longer needed anybody, not even Madame Eso to tell me the real intention of bringing me to Italy. All I rather knew now was that whatever ordeal I passed through on my journey to Italy must be placated with a success story back home in Nigeria.

 I was very adept at handling men that in a short while, I had come to understand Italian men and their cheeky ways. Some of them often preferred hide and seek sexual relationship with African ladies. They did enjoy what was in between our legs but somehow resented being seen openly with us. But I had no problem with that, because it was neither my thought to go into a relationship with any Italian man that could lead to marriage nor seriously get involved with an African man.

 Madame Eso had warned me that the first tip of success in Italy for an African lady was to be wary of advances from African men. And I was able to prove its veracity immediately upon my arrival to Italy.

 African men were our worst nemesis. They only loved the money we made from prostitution, not us. They would come with all manners of promises and enticements but when the chips were down, they would play before your eyes the tape of your worthlessness which disqualified you from walking down the aisle.

 I knew what I was in Italy for and had long locked my mind on the issue of marriage. By the time I hit a goldmine, I simply would fly to Africa and chop for a man of my choice.

 For now, I solely needed to concentrate on my hustling, and try as much as possible not to offend my Italian sex clients. Most Italians prized dearly their privacy. So I ensured I stealthily only walked into and out of their homes at their call for service. And I often got referral.

Madame Eso grew very fond of me. I was the newest of all her girls yet, at the end of the day, I came back home with the highest returns. Overtly, she showered me with praise. She often compared me with herself during her active hustling days.

I was happy with myself too, not only the fact I had been able to catch four regular Italian sex clients but the imbuing confidence that I could now hold on my own in a foreign land even despite the stiff rivalry from those hustlers from East Europe.

Initially, there was cordial relationship among we, Madame Eso’s girls, but not too long, they started getting envious of my success.

Madame Eso was a veteran of sex trade in Italy and knew the difference between a sex worker and a sex giver. She knew how difficult Italian men could, at times, be when it came to paying for sex, most especially, this pervasive period of economic hardship. So she was never astonished anytime the girls came home with pack of stories of sex rendered without payment or under duress or threat. But I would admit I had been quite fortunate with the sex work.

I wouldn’t say I was more pretty or any better than the girls in attracting good Italian men, but possibly by fate, I had been really lucky meeting with only those that truly desired sex, not skunks that delightfully targeted to mere draw blood out of sexual encounter. My on the work progress amazed the girls and they alleged I used evil spell to lure my men. I was not in the least bothered because I knew it was all borne out of jealousy. While they always came home with stories, I always came home with money.

The envy couldn’t have gone the other way if Madame Eso did not start to appreciate my work by sparing me some Euros after each day’s hustle.

One day, the girls accused me before Madame Eso of secretly remitting money home for some projects. I was bewildered. The accusation smacked of high disloyalty, and one offence no Madame in Italy took lightly.

I was the only person among all Madame Eso’s girls that had no ‘igbese’ hanging on her neck. And that was even enough reason to make the other girls go green with envy.

Madame Eso had graciously surprised me with a gift of one year road to freedom on my arrival to Italy. And that beat my imagination because I was the least close relative among her girls. So the accusation bit, and she reacted.

I denied it, but the girls had their facts.

Truly, I once remitted money home through a friend when I got message that my son was ill and needed medical attention. And the girls were all aware and felt concerned. But now out of sheer envy, they wanted to strain my relationship with Madame.

Even though Madame Eso was copiously wrapped in a garb of human kindness, however, like every Madame in Italy, she had succeeded in erecting around her a high wall of distrust and cruelty for the girls.

All over the land of Italy, girl-madame relationship reeked of extreme violence and inhuman treatment. It was either a Madame had severed the limbs of her girl or the girls had butchered and hid the lifeless body of their Madame.

Madame Eso had had her fair share of the orgy. Therefore not convinced with my denial, she flew into anger. But I resolutely maintained my innocence.

Perhaps, peeved by my guts, she bent over, removed her slippers and flung it on me. The slippers crashed on my face, leaving a cut on my lip.

I touched it, and a cake of blood stamped on my finger.

Not done, she grabbed a disused flower vase which she had, for a few days now, turned into a spit container and surged forward. The defensive rebellion in me resurrected and I defiantly made for the balcony.

Every Madame in Italy had a streak of violence and cruelty in her that was either developed or innate, and Madame Eso was no exception. But this time fortunately, she retreated and merely ordered me out of the house.

This was but one golden moment, a rare chance thrown at my lap to break away from the sordid life of prostitution in Italy to make a decent living. But I had unfortunately come to believe in my feminine endowment and accepted my fate in the land of Azzuri.

I dared her, packed my luggage and headed for Isabel’s house. Isabel had been a friend for barely two months. She was from Kenya in East Africa and had had her baptism in Italian prostitution.

But she was fortunate to meet Verena, an Italian lady who talked her out of the sex work. The lady went further to introduce her to an NGO that was into fight against human trafficking and female abuse. The NGO eventually hired her as an office assistant and she had, since then, been living her life.

I was happy at Isabel’s apartment. She totally minded her business and didn’t once make Aunt Sally of me for being a sex worker. I had my complete life with me and was driving it at full throttle.

Isabel had occasionally expressed concern over my safety. She had warned me to be wary of Madame Eso in that she wouldn’t just let me be after bringing me thus far to Italy. But I had thought nothing of the woman anymore possibly because I was blindfolded by the fact that I was now making all the money to myself.

However, an incident of a crossed glance and inexplicable gestures forced me to start suspecting I was being trailed by some particular African guys.

These three guys were often lurking around a café owned by a Bangladesh man where for a week or so now, I met a regular sex client named Lorenzo who for reasons only known to him had often asked me to wait for him beside the café shop at the intersected road.

That day, I stood at the road, having a bite of apple. While the African guys seemed to be looking my way, I blanked them, giving no hoot.

I knew them pretty much and could write a full book on their escapade in Italy…either they were on a look out on who to obtain or simply on a local knowledge mission. They were criminally into everything on and about legal and illegal immigrants in Italy.

Lorenzo never failed to drive by and pick me up at the appointed time.

As I was waiting for him, as usual, on this fateful day, two African men appeared from nowhere, grabbed me and started dragging me along.

Intuitively, I began to struggle with them but they were much stronger and mean. One of them used his coarse palm to gag me, while they pulled me along amidst resistance.

They eventually dragged me into an empty building and began hitting me all over. They kept asking how I found my way to Italy and who was responsible? I groaned in pains, pleading with them.

They tore my half top t-shirt and pant leaving me naked. And that was when they began doing all sorts of dehumanizing things on me.

The stout looking man would forcefully squeeze his fist into my private part and pulled it out. The moment he was done with that, the other man would release a punch on my lower abdomen.

They tortured me till I passed out and later woke up in a hospital bed with aches all over.

I made to talk but couldn’t because my tongue was badly severed in their attempt to cut it off. I was told I was left dead but was rescued and brought to the hospital by an Italian man.

I spent almost four weeks at the hospital and was stitched all over.

As soon as I was discharged, I was advised to seek refuge in a caritas. My assailants would obviously still be on my trail if they ever get the wind I survived the attack, and sojourning in caritas would be a better and safer option.

I took the advice and went to recuperate in a caritas at Lecce, South of Italy. But life was no more what I used to know. My speech had become blurred because of my severed tongue.

The caritas was too boring to stay. We lived such a catholic checkmated and regimented way of life that I wasn’t cut out for. I was not comfortable whatsoever with the restricted lifestyle.

I still needed to hustle. I still needed to make money…at least, once in a while, to be able to send something back home. My aged mother was there, my baby boy was gradually turning to a young man and my siblings, all were looking up to me.

After a few days, the thought of leaving the caritas became so weighty on me. I had slept over it but the overriding fact was that I still wanted to be reckoned with as a hustler. And there was no way to it than to hit the streets of Italy again. Good enough, I wasn’t chained to the walls of the caritas. The choice to remain or not was with me.

A chance meeting with Tessy, an old acquaintance, was all I needed to expressly resolve to leave the caritas.

It happened during a siesta break after the usual midday devotion; I had strolled outside to relax at the park opposite the caritas.

I sat on my usual hand-like ceramic sculptured seat, taking in the soothing sight of passersby.

Out of nowhere, I saw a familiar female figure standing beside a bus stop shade and starring rather at a five-storey residential apartment across.

Tessy, I called out. And the figure turned, revealing a huge scar on the left side of the face. Tessy, I managed again to call out, and she made another turn.

Tessy actually appeared shock with my stitchy look, but she too didn’t fare better physically.

Her legs were wobbling as we hugged each other. She had terribly emaciated and was only a shadow of her former self.

Her case was different. She was accused by her Madame of snatching her Italian based Nigerian boyfriend. And while she was sleeping, the Madame dabbed her face with a steam iron and pushed her out to the street.

Tessy’s aged mother back home in Nigeria was not spared either. The Madame through her wide connections sent boys after her, and the old woman lost a rib in the attack.

We relieved our predicament together, and Tessy advised me to go and apologize to Madame Eso and make peace with her. She feared the worst could happen to me sooner if that was not done.

She confessed she was alive today simply because she stooped so low to profusely beg her Madame for forgiveness despite the false accusation on her…She valued her life and so had no option. In Italy, the Madames still had their seamless network working.

Even though I had nursed the feeling to leave the caritas, I considered my meeting with Tessy as one made in hell. I committed the worst mistake of my life by heeding to her advice to make up with Madame Eso.

After the meeting, I bought a biglietto and boarded a train to Bari. I had expected Madame Eso to kind of express surprise at my strange look when she saw me. But there was rather a pleasant look playing on her face as she casually asked what happened to me. I kept mute and felt like running back to the caritas. It confirmed my later suspicion she masterminded the attack on me.

However, I knelt before her and tearfully begged for her forgiveness, and that act marked the genesis of my nemesis.

Madame Eso claimed her softness on me gave me the impetus to break her principle. And for violating her trust, she would now hang ‘igbese’ on my neck and make me undergo what her other girls went through before she could accept me again into her fold.

She gave condition of what I would do if I still wanted to be part of her team.

The condition was that she couldn’t stay in the same city with me anymore and in which case, I should relocate from the city of Bari to Roma. But before then, she would shave and keep in her custody – my pubic hair and fingernails.

I acquiesced, and didn’t question the motive because I already knew. She wanted my servitude and complete loyalty. But I rather needed my life with the belief I would be emancipated one day.

Throughout the day, Madame Eso deliberately avoided me like a plague, while I sat in the living room, feeling miserable about myself.

Late in the night, she called me inside and without uttering a word, offered me a cup, a shaving stick and a razor blade, and left for another room.

I shaved my pubic hair and also cut my fingernails into the cup which she later took away.

Next day, she then arranged for my trip to Roma.

Before I arrived at Roma, I was already drained with regret and bitterness. I was so depressed and sad that nothing else in the world was of interest to me, not even my son in Nigeria.

It wasn’t too long before frustration became visible on me. I started hearing strange voices about me, particularly, when I was alone. I was always scared. I began losing touch with reality in Roma.

I rented an apartment and accommodated a Nigerian who newly arrived at Europe. When the young man felt he couldn’t cope with my mysterious ways, he dubiously assumed ownership of the apartment and threw me out.

In a nutshell, I became a destitute on the streets of Roma. I solicited alms from people and ate from the bins.

Occasionally, I dreamed of returning to Nigeria, but each passing day, I saw the reality of the dream going up in smoke.

I had become an Italian property, waiting to take my turn among the unfortunate young and vibrant Africans who are dying daily on the streets of Europe. CIAO! 

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